


Light on the Prow: Book One

by bbvhrla



Series: Light on the Prow [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbvhrla/pseuds/bbvhrla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the second part in the 'Light on the Prow' au wherein Hannibal and Will met in New Orleans fifteen years prior to the setting of the pilot episode of the show. Book One follows the characters in and around Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plan to include more tags / characters as the story progresses, but right now i'm just updating it as i upload chapters.
> 
> would highly recommend reading the **[prologue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1206547)** before you start this. if you don't want to, some stuff is just not going to make sense, but basically will  & hannibal weekend flung it and then will told hannibal his friends were 'rude'. flash forward 15 years and we're at the start of the show.

**.**

 

 

**a light on the prow**

**book one, chapter one**

 

 

 

 

_He’s been here before. Walking the halls of the hospital to the room where she sleeps, perhaps never to wake up again. For years it was Aleshia, and in his dreams the room was void of sound, so even when she screamed at him, there was silence. Last week he’d woken in the night to see Elise Nichols, spirited from reach, and here, now, Will knows what he will see when he walks into this room. Both young women, murdered and mutilated by the sick at mind, manifested in the body of this third, Abigail._

_At the end of the hall he pauses, goosebumps pricking his skin. He has to go in, has to see her, has to memorize the image of her in this bed because she is the one here, not Aleshia or Elise or any of the other countless bodies that haunt his dreams. Abigail is alive, the doctors had said she could still wake up. What does she have to wake up to? Trauma, waves of it, but they’ll contain it, he and Alana. They have to._

You don’t owe them anything _, she’d said that morning, when he’d called and asked if she’d cover his class._ You know that, right? Jack - Abigail Hobbs.

I know _, he’d replied, and he did, but here he is all the same. He’ll be here when Abigail wakes, he’s made the right choice, but he steps inside the room and stops._

_There, sitting next to her, his hand covering hers, head nodding with the breath of sleep. There is Hannibal, and Will feels like his body is made of stone. A statue in the quicksand, sinking, and stuck fast._

 

 ****  
  


**one day earlier**

Will wakes in the morning to a sharp knock, and he knows he’s being goaded the second he opens the door. He’d known it before, yesterday, sitting in shock in Jack’s office with a man he’d not seen for years but in the occasional dream casually dissecting his mind, laying it out bare on the desk for all in the room to see. Hannibal had offered no explanation for his presence, no hint that he remembered Will at all save a smirking smile. It had pissed him off then, and now he’s pissed again, because even without his glasses he can tell Hannibal is wearing a grin.

“Where’s Crawford?” Will’s aware his voice is still rough from sleep, and he frowns at the response.  _In court. Some excuse, Jack._

“...adventure will be ours alone today.” When Will doesn’t speak, Hannibal continues. “I’m here in his place, Will, but I’m not here on Jack’s behalf.”

Will raises his eyebrows at this.

“What would it look like,” he asks, forcing himself to sound less defensive, “if you were?”

“I don’t know.” Hannibal shrugs somehow with his face alone. “I am not often in the position of acting on another’s behalf.”

He looks up, and Will’s sight is hazy, but he can tell Hannibal is watching his eyes. And, for a third time, “May I come in, Will?”

 

Will accepts the food Hannibal offers him, a meager apology for yesterday.  _Just keep it professional,_  one of them has to say it. His words are still hanging in the air when Hannibal replies.

“Or, we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

It takes a lot for Will not to spit the egg mash straight out onto his plate. For the first time Hannibal’s said something that remotely indicates a recognition of their past, yet his expression is normal, unexpectant, and for whatever reason, the anger curling up inside of Will dissipates. _It’s a game,_ the way Hannibal speaks, the whole interaction, each phrase a piece, each lilt of his voice a move the piece makes on the board before them. Or, perhaps less of a game and more of a test, both reminiscent of and distinct from how they spoke to one another all those years ago, as if Hannibal is trying to ferret out which parts of Will are the same, which parts he’s grown into and which parts he’s let go. A game, a test, either way, Will’s awake now, his moves unfold before him, caffeine pumping up his veins. He leans back, letting his fork sit on his plate.

“I don’t find you that interesting.”

Hannibal’s eyes flash, _he remembers our last conversation as well as I do,_ and Will has to hold back a grin at the challenge, the promising response.

“You will.”

 

They don’t talk on the way to the construction site, save small bits of directions and acknowledgements. It isn’t hard for Will, surprisingly, to ignore the man in the car next to him, and it seems Hannibal is similarly caught up in his own distant thoughts. Will pushes his focus from the man next to him to the case at hand, to an exploration of the curious minds of two distinct sociopaths.

Their convergence is bizarre. As a copy-cat, the second killer would be close to the Nichols investigation. Not that they know the girl, necessarily - or the killer, but something about the murders, the case itself, had sparked their interest. If they are a sociopath, it would be almost impossible for Will, or Crawford, to determine what that spark was. Will tries not to let that eat at him. But, more often than not, it is the unsolved cases that wake him in the dead of night.

There isn’t much to see at the construction site. Isn’t much at all except a missing address, and maybe that’s why he follows through with it; it’s the only thing he can find that resembles a clue.

He doesn’t think on the way to the Hobbs’ house, doesn’t think it will be anything, and then...then is now. He’s here, here with blood streaks on his glasses and at the police station they let him wash his arms, but his hands aren’t enough to scrub all of it away. He needs to go home, all of the past five hours spent muddling through this mess with everyone and he needs to go home and take care of the dogs and himself.

Will doesn’t drowse on the drive back to Wolf Trap, but the road appears to him through the windshield from far away.

 

At five in the morning Will calls Dr. Alana Bloom. As she stands from her vanity, Will, in his own home, is sipping the last of the coffee he’d made two hours before. Alana looks at the caller, and picks up the phone.

“Graham? It’s early.”

“Wanted to catch you before you left. Are you busy at nine?”

For a moment, Will can hear only her quiet breathing, and the muted sounds of a television.

“You want me to cover your class.”

It isn't a statement, though it could've been. She’s discreet, Alana, and sure of each move she makes, and Will is silent, same as a nod if they’d been in each other’s presence. But, the seconds of silence draw on, and only when the broken sounds of a newscast come through clear over the line does Will realize Alana’s breathing has all but stopped .

“It’s on the news, Will.” The words come out calm. “I’m watching it now.”

He’d known it would be, but the garbled sounds reaching him through the phone are so familiar, and in a moment he’s there again, standing out on the street, and Alana’s words are registering faint.

_You know you don’t owe them anything._

_Who?_

_Jack...Abigail Hobbs._

_Jack...I haven’t talked to Jack._

_Did you hear what I said, Will?_

_That I don’t owe them anything._

_You know that, right?_

_Will?_

_Yeah._

As he dresses, as he drives, even as he walks the length of the hospital parking lot his arms are sticky and red in his sight. Inside the nurse directs him to the third floor, and then he's standing at the end of the hall and yeah, he's been here before.

 

-

__

“Will.”

Will’s jerks his head up to find Hannibal staring down at him, perhaps confused as to why Will is sitting on the floor, or as to why he’s here at all with his dreary eyes, head nodding from sleep. Will rubs his face awake as Hannibal offers his hand.

It’s almost one in the afternoon. The walk to the diner down the street is worth it not to have to try and digest the cafeteria food. Will is starving, has barely eaten since the the day before. That meal had been with Hannibal, too.

After the waitress comes, after they give her their orders and then she’s refilled their coffee cups once already with a ‘Sorry, guys, the kitchens backed up,’ after all that there’s the sound of crashing dishes from across the room, and Will drops the stirring straw in his coffee with a sigh, and looks up.

“Why did you quit surgery?”

Hannibal looks over to him from where he was watching around the corner, and puts his own fork down.

“It was not an easy decision to make. But, when you can no longer live comfortably in the old spaces of your life, you must move on. You know this, I think.”

Hannibal is watching him, and Will shrugs. He frowns as Hannibal leans in, and even though he's not looking at the man, Will can still hear him quite clearly.

“I know my presence in Baltimore must’ve felt like an ambush. I promise you, Will, that was never my intent. I was there visiting Dr. Bloom, with whom I believe you are acquainted. She was a pupil of mine. Jack Crawford came by her office, and when she introduced us, he asked for my help.”

Will frowns as Hannibal leans back.

“I didn’t realize you were involved in the case. Although, I have to say, the surprise was quite delightful.”

“Delightful?” The word spits out of him, but Hannibal doesn’t flinch.

“For me, yes.”

Will’s face is sour.

“Jack didn’t ask you for a profile on me?”

“He asked me to help with a profile. I only assumed he meant the killers’.”

Hannibal dips his head down, catching Will’s eyes with the movement.

“This is an apology, Will. Hopefully one more acceptable than yesterday. I was quite amazed, when I saw you, at how much of you I recognized. I am amazed, still, at the things I am picking up, of what I can only assume must have happened to you since last we met.”

Will doesn’t speak. His skin is hot, and he thanks his genes, not for the first time, that it doesn’t show on his face.

“You prefer glasses, now?” Hannibal asks, leaning back.

“Yeah. Contacts get to me.” Will touches the frames, and drops his hands to his lap and, after a few moments of silence,  speaks again.

“What’re you thinking?”

“Me?” Hannibal's shrug is slight. “Truthfully, I am thinking that this food is not much better than that cafeteria looked. I happen to be remembering, a bit whimsically, the roasted ham I have at home, which I know for a fact features deliciously with toast as a light breakfast.”

“Sounds nice,” Will mutters into his coffee mug. He raises his eyebrows when Hannibal stands.

“Shall we?”

“What?”

Hannibal smiles, and Will’s too tired to take it as patronizing.

“It’s an offer, Will. Would you like to come over?”

 

As if he isn’t already exhausted, the drive to Hannibal’s nearly succeeds in putting Will to sleep. He’d insisted he was all right to drive; isn’t a fan of going anywhere without a car, but even the occasional pinch to his arm is hardly enough to keep his eyes open. He makes it, barely, up the long drive and Hannibal is frowning when Will finally steps out of his car.

“What is it?” he asks, but Will shakes his head.

“Just tired.”

He knows his brain is firing slow, but Hannibal closes in quite suddenly, the hand that braced his shoulder curling around the back of his neck.

It’s incredible, the familiarity of the move and how strongly it hits him; the same gesture, same touch as Hannibal had given him all those years ago on the shaded New Orleans sidewalk.

“May I?” he asks with barely a whisper, and Will nods, skin hot and cold all at once, grateful for any excuse to close his eyes. Hannibal kisses him, slow and soft; a simple gesture, but there’s enough need behind it to erase any lingering doubt Will had about what they were doing here. He responds - or tries to, anyway, and then Hannibal is leading him inside, the grip on his shoulder steady.

“Sit.” Hannibal indicates the davenport, but Will shakes his head.

“If I sit down I’m going to fall asleep.”

“That’s all right.” Hannibal pulls his jacket from him.

“That’s not what I came here to do.”

“Will.” Hannibal practically pushes him down on the sofa and, leaning over, kisses him again full on the lips. “Rest. I prefer my company slightly less delirious.”

“I’m not delirious,” Will mutters, but he lets himself fall back anyway, Hannibal pulling his shoes from his feet.

__

When he wakes, Will is alone in a silent house. He can’t guess how long he’s been there, how long he’s been asleep, but he knows it was the dead that woke him. The dead and dying, he knows every one of their faces, and more. He knows the sound of their hearts beating fast in those fleeting moments of terror. As he had dreamt of them, his own heartbeat had begun to mimic those dying refrains. That’s what it was that woke him, in a pool of sweat on Hannibal’s couch.

He sits up slow, can’t count the number of times his vision’s gone grey from standing too fast. There’s a stack of towels on the coffee table, a note -  _Shower in the master bath_  - perched on top. He picks the paper up; thick stock, but there’s nothing else remarkable about it, no writing on the back.

The house is huge. He doesn’t see Hannibal anywhere; even with the sheer size of the home, it’s not a labyrinth. There’re only a handful of rooms, it's just that each one is so  _big_. 

Eventually he finds the master bath, taking his time under the hot water, and when he finally steps out his clothes are no longer heaped in the corner where he left them. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he steps out into the bedroom, only to find Hannibal relaxed on the bed, leaning against the backboard pillows with a book, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He looks up, then down Will’s figure, and Will is painfully aware of the sight he's presenting.

“I see you got my note.” Hannibal’s voice is quiet, but even so, Will can practically hear the hunger in his eyes, which have yet to break from Will’s dripping form.

“Thanks.” He feels as awkward as a teenager, unsure how to stand like normal people do, but it isn’t a lie as he continues, “I needed this. My clothes?”

“In the wash.”

Will nods, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed and wiping a stray streak of water from his forehead.

“I should go home.”

He can feel Hannibal shifting slightly on the bed behind him, and when the man speaks, his voice is close.

“You’re exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Will turns, “which is why I should go home and sweat in my own bed - “

Hannibal swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, light, just a hint of wetness inside their lips. Even as he pulls back, he doesn’t let go of Will’s chin, holding it so Will is twisted, looking back at him.

“You should stay,” Hannibal says, running his other hand over Will’s shoulder, his arm, the side of his back, his waist. Will doesn’t say anything - doesn’t feel like speaking just now, but he welcomes Hannibal’s touch. It’s a relief, _finally_ , the physical realization of days of being under Hannibal’s fixated gaze, and as much a relief that it’s Hannibal making all the moves, that he doesn’t have to worry whether he’s pushing things too far. All he has to do is respond. At first it’s just those kisses, light, brushing, and Hannibal’s hands exploring. They find their way to his chest, and Will gasps at the fingers teasing his hardening nipples.

The kisses grow deeper, and they move with them until Will’s the one whose back is against the headboard. It isn’t till he’s propped like that that Will remembers how tired he is, how sore; nightmares never equate to sleep.

All of a sudden, he’s feeling lightheaded. Hannibal’s lips leave his, and he’s grateful for a second - that is, until they reconnect with his nipples.

“Hannibal - “ Will jerks up, “I can’t - “

“Shh.” The sound breathes cool air on  his skin, and Hannibal’s hands are tight on his thighs. “Let me take care of you, Will.”

Will meets his eyes for a moment, then meets his kiss, then leans back as Hannibal’s mouth moves down his neck, his shoulder. Hannibal’s hands are moving, too, one caressing Will’s thigh, the other reaching over them both to the bedside table.

Will knows, when Hannibal’s lubed up fingers finally find Will’s cock, that his face must look ridiculous. It’s been a while - not too long, but a while, and even though he’s not as young as he once was, it’s been long enough that Hannibal’s touch, wet and slick and warm, is making him shudder. At first the man’s hand moves slow, tight around the base and loosening until he’s barely touching at the head, and it doesn't take long before Will is squirming.

“ _Hannibal_.” It comes out like a growl, and the second it does Hannibal leans in and kisses him again, pulling the sound from his mouth. Will groans as Hannibal finally,  _finally_  slicks up to the head, teasing Will’s leaking slit with his thumb. He can see the grin on Hannibal’s face, can see, also, the bulge in his pants, and considering Will is completely naked, Hannibal has way too many clothes on.

“You too,” Will says, scrapping at Hannibal’s pants, pushing them down to his knees, but before he can reach his cock Hannibal grabs Will’s wrists, yanking them up over his head.

The movement throws him off, and when Hannibal catches his gaze, he holds it, shifting both Will’s wrists into one hand. He can’t hold them that way, can't wrap his hand all the way around, but Will nods back, he's not moving.

With a kiss he closes his eyes,  _a nicer way to get sweat on the skin,_ and then his breathe comes out shallow. It isn’t Hannibal’s hand touching Will but  _his_  dick, rubbing Will's erection with both his hand and his own, and with each stroke he’s pressing them together, and fuck if that doesn’t feel incredible.

When Will comes, Hannibal bends in, licking and mouthing at his nipples, coaxing the orgasm out of him until Hannibal comes himself, hot on Will's thighs. Hannibal is kissing him still, open-mouthed, gentle, and Will's breathing slows with the orgasm’s resonations. By the time Hannibal has wiped them both down with a washcloth, Will is already half asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**a light on the prow**

**book one, chapter two**

 

   

 

 

It occurs to Will gradually as he wakes that he’s not at home. No dawn birds, no snuffling dogs, and the soft light in the room is emerging not from behind the window curtains but from the crack underneath the door that leads to the master bath.  _Master bath - master bedroom_. Not only is he not at home, he’s in Hannibal’s house, Hannibal’s bed. Even before, years ago, he’d never been here like this, in the man’s own space, and suddenly he wants to be up, wants to explore, wants to know more.

He shifts, sitting up from where Hannibal must’ve pulled the covers over him. The alarm clock on the bedside table blinks out 8pm, and from the bathroom, a quiet flush. Will looks himself over - at least this time he didn’t wake in a puddle of his own sweat. He hadn’t had one nightmare, and that realization strikes hard. But before he can dwell on the thought, the bathroom door opens to reveal Hannibal, a pair of silk sweats settled on his hips, and the memories of Will’s old nightmares escapes him.

“Will. Did I wake you?” He’s at the bed before Will can answer, sitting gently. “How do you feel?”

Will shrugs, shrugs off the lingering way Hannibal is looking at his neck, his collarbone, his bare chest.

“I’m all right.”

Hannibal nods, and although his face remains as inscrutable as it always was, Will can see at least some thought process occurring there.

“What?”

“Mm?”

“You look...I don’t know.”

“Worried?” Hannibal shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really. My propensity for psychiatry, I suppose. I’m afraid whatever difficulty you have sleeping will only be exacerbated by the events of the past few days. Especially now, your sleep schedule - “

“Hannibal, I don’t have a sleep schedule.”

Hannibal frowns at this. Admittedly, Will is beginning to get more used to the intensity with which the man studies his face.

“No one to keep you grounded.”

His voice is soft when he says the words, more to himself than to Will. Will closes his eyes, nodding away, breathing in the smell of the room, the bed, of them together. When he exhales his eyes open, Hannibal is close, his hand tracing up from the bed, up Will’s arm, his bare shoulder, carding the hair at the nape of his neck. It steadies there, and Will’s own hands are flat on the bed as Hannibal captures Will’s jaw, thumb running back on his stubble, light on the lines of his cheek, his chin. It stops against Will’s lips and he swallows, parting them as Hannibal presses his thumb into Will’s mouth. He lets it in, lips slack and then Hannibal’s hand tightens in his hair as he bends in, his tongue tracing Will’s lips. With the kiss he uses his tongue to curl Will’s around his thumb, coaxing the movement until, when he draws back, Will’s lips go tight, letting Hannibal’s thumb out slick. Hannibal’s smile is ghostly, but then his hands drop, the suddenness with which he stands enough to shake Will’s confidence.

“What - “

“Would you like something to eat, Will?”

“I - uhm...sure. I could eat, I guess.”

For the moment he thinks perhaps its a euphemism, but then Hannibal is out the door, leaving Will looking around the empty room.

It isn’t long before Hannibal returns, the dish in his hands overflowing with food, or, what Will can only assume is food. The collection is far removed in appearance from the Dole salad bags and grilled cut steaks Will normally dines on.

“What is it?” Hannibal asks, sitting next to him on the bed again, and Will realizes he’s frowning.

“Nothing, I - what is that?”

“Some fruit, some meat. Just a sample of some of what’s in my fridge.” Hannibal lifts a bruschetta from the plate, topped with a curling cold cut, and holds it out. Will reaches to take it, but Hannibal shakes his head and, feeling immensely silly, Will sits back, lets Hannibal feed it to him, lets him brush the crumbs from his lips, all the while watching the fire in the man’s eyes. Hannibal looks up, catching his gaze as Will swallows.

“Not bad,” he says, and Hannibal smiles that ghostly grin, and then he is kissing Will again, tongue chasing the taste in his mouth.

“Would you like another?” he asks, when Will pulls back for breath, and his frown when Will shakes his head prompts Will to pull Hannibal back to him, close.

“Later, just - this, right now, just this.”

Hannibal smiles against his lips, his hands running light over Will’s chest, down his side, gripping his hips and all the while planting kisses on his neck, his shoulders.

“What would you like, Will?”

“You. You, I’d like - I want you in me.”

Hannibal draws back, catching Will’s eyes.

“It won’t be like last time.”

“No,” Will frowns. “No, I mean - if I recall correctly, last time, we were both about fifteen years younger and I was drunk enough I nearly passed out halfway through, so - “

The rest of his words are swallowed as Hannibal surges up against him, a new ferocity in his kisses as he shifts them both. He’s straddling Will’s thighs, the muscle in his own tight and pressing the two of them together, but he lifts himself when Will’s hands prompt him to. Will pulls the sweats Hannibal was wearing down at least to the knee, and then Hannibal’s cock is free, free and hard but Will wants more, wants it leaking and -

“In me,” he insists, in-between Hannibal’s kisses and it’s Will’s turn to grip him, pull him close as he reaches out for the lube.

“Turn over, Will,” Hannibal’s sitting up again, and Will does, biting his lip into the pillow as his cock rubs against the sheets. Hannibal moves him, positioning, using his knees to part Will’s legs further, his ass sticking up in the air. Will’s skin is hot, and it seems Hannibal’s is too, but his touches are so light, brushes barely felt and it’s making Will grind his teeth in the anticipation.

Hannibal leans over him, hovering, and pulls Will’s chin until he’s up enough for a kiss, and as his tongue is tracing Will’s teeth the first of his lubed up fingers mimics the movement. Will’s breath hitches as the finger presses inside slow, slow the way Hannibal is slowly pressing in closer with his whole body, heavy, his cock bulging against the small of Will’s back. He works the finger, twisting, and Will lets himself relax under the weight of it all and Hannibal adds another, mouthing at Will’s neck. He works the fingers until Will is working with him, torn between pushing back into Hannibal’s hand and pressing forward, pressing into the sheets and giving himself some bit of relief. He shifts, letting his weight rest on his right hand and sliding his left down, but before he can reach his erection Hannibal grabs the hand, entwining their fingers and pulling Will’s arm back into place, and Will groans at the addition of a third finger, thick with lube and curling inside him.

“You,” he’s shaking his head as Hannibal murmurs in his ear, “I’m ready, Hannibal, I want - “

“Mm,” Hannibal mouths at his neck, and then pulls back, pulls his fingers free and Will can make out the tear of the condom wrapper, everything’s loud and muffled all at once.

Hannibal leans forward again, kissing up Will’s spine as he guides himself in, and Will shudders into it, those first slow, lazy thrusts. Hannibal’s heavy,  _god_  he’s heavy, entwining the fingers of their left hands again and Will grips at the sheets as the lubed up fingers of Hannibal’s right begin to stroke Will’s cock to the rhythm. It’s slow at first, too  _fucking_  slow and Hannibal grins against his skin as Will writhes underneath him.

“Just - “

The breath is barely out of him when Hannibal snaps into him, a flick in his wrist and after that it’s all movement, fast and full and Will doesn’t even know the sounds he’s making anymore, can’t think straight until his abdomen is shaking, limbs nearing loose. Hannibal slows a little, like he sensed it and Will shakes his head.

“Don’t, Hannibal I’m close - “

“Not yet, Will,” the voice a breath next to his ear, and Will gasps out a ‘ _fuck_ ’ as Hannibal’s fingers close in a ring around the base of his cock.

“God _damn_ it,” Will grits his teeth, and Hannibal kisses his shoulder before leaning back, his fingers still tight around Will’s cock. He begins to thrust again in earnest, the angle as he’s upright a bit deeper, thrusting till Will’s eyes are watering and he buries his face in the pillows to stifle his moans. His orgasm is thrumming inside of him, he could almost cry when Hannibal’s movements begin to lose their clarity. Hannibal’s fingers loosen and Will begins to leak with each stuttering thrust. Hannibal leans in, engulfing Will, and then he bites, teeth deep in the meat of Will’s shoulder and he’s coming, they’re both coming, and Will’s gasping for air.

Hannibal mouths at his shoulder as Will sinks down, licking at the divots where his teeth dug in. He mouths it open and sloppy even as he pulls out and settles next to Will, kissing his shoulder till Will shifts to meet Hannibal’s lips with his own. Hannibal hums at this, and as his breath steadies, Will opens his eyes to find he’s being watched. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, a quiet question,  _you okay?_ , and Will nods, he’s sticky and the adrenaline’s pumping and he knows tomorrow he’ll be sore but he nods all the same.

“Mm.” Hannibal sits up, propped on an elbow, and pushes sweaty bangs back from Will’s eyes. “Now, Will. Can I interest you in dinner?”

**-**

 

It’s late by the time Will leaves, late but he insists he has to go, has to go and prepare himself because tomorrow morning he has to return to the real world. The world where he has to shower and eat and work, prepare for class, take care of himself and his pack of strays at home. The world where Abigail Hobbs lies silent, God only knows the nightmares that followed her into that unwakeable state. The world where his hands were only yesterday covered in blood, the world where, he knows, sleeping doesn’t come easy. Not like that afternoon,  _you were exhausted_ , he reminds himself, but he hasn’t slept that easy in years.

In the morning when he wakes his alarm is ringing loud. He’d drank himself to sleep the night before - not on purpose, but still. He stumbles to the shower, hair still dripping in his coffee as he drives on to the school.

He’s hungover, but somehow it’s easier to talk about the case then, all the students mistaking his mood for something else - sympathy, perhaps, or anxiety, something. Still, it surprises him when Alana approaches, surprises him less so when Jack follows after, and then those words, those surprise him, perhaps more than they should.

_Hannibal Lector. Hannibal Lector would be a better fit._

He’d almost forgotten Jack knew the man too, knew his name, that his name could come from Jack’s throat. Alana knows him, too, hadn’t he said? It’s unsettling, and Will knows he’s more brusque than he should be, but he can’t help it. And, anyway, it’s not like his words are wrong.

_I’m not going to be comfortable with anyone inside my head._

Outside, once he reaches the car, he pulls out his phone and dials Hannibal’s number. It goes to voicemail automatically, that thick accent warbled over the radio waves.

“Hannibal,” Will starts after the beep, suddenly unsure of what to say. “I - uhm, I don’t know if Jack’s talked to you. I don’t - I guess just call me back.”

He hangs up, fist tight around the phone.

_Therapy doesn’t work on me._

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

>  

 

 

**a light on the prow**

**book one, chapter three**

 

 

 

 

_Hannibal Lecter is at his desk when Jack calls. He’s in-between patients, but lets the phone ring anyway, tapping the armrest of his chair and picking up just before the last shrill chime._

_“Agent Crawford. To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_“Have you spoken to Will Graham?”_

_Jack hasn’t. At least, not about whatever he’s calling for now. It’s easy to tell Crawford is calling him first._

_“Not since the day of.” Lecter pauses, but, with no hint of a sound from Jack, continues. “I apologize, I only assumed this has to do with Hobbs.”_

_“It does. Well - sort of.”_

_Crawford’s voice is rough, the kind of dry throat that comes from days of respectful, tired tones mixed in with all the booming demands. Hannibal waits for Jack to speak again and, when he does -_

_“I have a favor to ask.”_

 

\- - - - -

 

Will lingers at Quantico for a little while after his class, but in the end he just drives home. He can’t get Jack’s words out of his head, can’t stop thinking about the past few nights, waking with the image of Hobbs’ corpse still echoing out of his dreams. 

The dogs are eager to run by the time he gets back. He brings his dinner out to the porch while they wander the fields. It’s not too muggy, and after his meal he continues to sit, sipping a finger of whiskey as the sun goes down. 

He isn’t drunk when his phone finally rings, though he’s already begun to regret his decision not to be.

“Hannibal,” he answers, staring at the dredges of whiskey in his glass.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is entirely at ease. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” 

“You left me a message?”

 “Yeah, I - “ Will grits his teeth. Maybe he is a little drunk, but he doesn’t feel like skirting around this. “Hannibal, why did you accept? When Jack asked, I mean - I don’t have a reason not to talk to you. Other than a general hatred of therapy, but...you could’ve told him anything. Why tell him you’d talk to me, that you’d sign off on me?”

Hannibal is silent, for a moment. Then - 

“I saw it as an opportunity. I would like to see you grounded, Will.”

“I’m fine.” His eyes are closed; all the muscles in his face feel tight. “You’re not worried? About your license, your peers?”

“No. Should I be?”

“No.”

“Can you think of anyone you consider a peer, Will?”

“Can you?” He has a bad habit of doing that to therapists, when he doesn’t want to answer their questions.

“Alana Bloom.” 

Will opens his eyes at that.

“For me or you?”

“For us both, I would say.” 

Will shakes his head, shakes away how absurd it is that Hannibal is even here, that he knows people Will knows. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, fairly suddenly. It’s funny, how even as an adult crossing any kind of boundary is that much easier with whiskey in his gut. “Right now, I mean.”

“Reading. And you?”

“Just...out on the porch. Dogs are in the yard.”

“You have dogs? How many?”

Will shakes his head.

“I pick up strays.” He doesn’t want to know if Hannibal’s amused by this, doesn’t want to hear any laughter over the phone.

“I have to go,” he says, shaking his head again, it’s terribly abrupt. “Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight.”

Will stands up quick after he hangs up the phone, calling the dogs in. He knows, already, it won’t be easy getting to sleep tonight.

 

\- - - - - 

 

They set the appointment for 5 p.m. the next day. The office is typical, standard psychiatry set-up, but then Will isn’t here to think about that. He crosses the room without a glance to Hannibal, pausing just for a moment before climbing up to the balcony of bookshelves. Medical texts, first editions, records of exotic disease. He knows a little of the jargon, but not enough.

“Will.” Hannibal waits until he turns around to continue. “It occurred to me after we spoke last night that the reason you called...that you may have been angry with me.”

“Angry?”

“Yes. In accepting Jack’s request, I inadvertently dictated a shift in our relationship.”

Will turns back to the shelves, his gut twisting with his feet. _Its like this, with psychiatrists,_ he reminds himself. Always vocalizing, throwing motivations out to see which one will stick. Always a different way to try and get him to speak.

“You should’ve asked me,” he says. “But I’m not angry.”

It's a lie, of course it's a lie, of course he's angry, but he's not interested in Hannibal knowing that. There’s silence after this, for a little while, until, upon hearing some shuffling papers, Will looks around over his shoulder, and slowly approaches the rail.

“What is that?”

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as Hannibal gestures to the letter on his desk.

“Your psychological evaluation.” Hannibal looks down, as if reading from the page. “You’re totally functional and more or less sane. Well done.”

“Did you - “ Will knows the answer, obviously, but it’s not about what’s true. It’s about what words people use to tell their truth; how they see it, how they spin it. “Did you just rubber stamp me?”

“Jack Crawford,” Hannibal replies, “may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you. And our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork.”

The smirk flickers across Hannibal’s face once more, and above him Will begins to pace.

_Conversation._ Alana had used that word too, _have a conversation with him, Will._ Who was he having a conversation with, here? A psychiatrist? A friend, a lover, a fifteen-year-old fling? 

Will frowns, remembering Jack’s phrasing when he’d approached him in his classroom the day before. He’d already spoken to Hannibal, had already gotten what permissions he’d needed from him. _How?_ Jack could be persuasive, but Hannibal had never struck him as one to be played. He was shrewd, not the type to act as someone else’s puppet. _So what are you getting out of this?_

 

\- - - - -

 

Will is used to the dead sharing his dreams. He’s not used to them slipping into his reality, reaching out to grasp him with rotting hands. It doesn’t matter that he knows Hobbs wasn’t really there. He remembers it happening differently from how it happened in reality. That, apparently, is a decent enough reason to box up whatever pride he has left and shove it into Hannibal’s hands, in the form of a psychological evaluation, complete and unfiled.

“What did you see? Out in the field.”

Hannibal hasn’t broken eye contact with him since he walked in the room, and even as he says it, even as the frown crosses Hannibal’s face, Will doesn’t look away.

“Hobbs.”

“An association?”

“A hallucination.” He’s pacing, he knows, but he can’t stop. “I saw him in someone else’s grave.”

Hannibal, after a moment, makes as if he’s about to speak again. Will tries to swallow any frustrated laughter before the questions come. _Did I think he was really there? No. Did I talk to him? No._ But, in fact, Hannibal’s question isn’t anything like that. It isn’t even really about the hallucination at all. 

“Did you tell Jack what you saw?”

He’s watching as Will shakes his head, and then he blinks away with a shrug.

“It’s stress. You displaced the victim of another killer’s crime with what could arguably be considered your victim - ”

“I don’t consider Hobbs my victim.” 

“What do you consider him?”

“Dead.” 

In his mind, that’s the end of it. But, _typical_ , to the psychiatrist, not so. 

“Is it harder,” Hannibal says, “imagining the thrill someone else feels killing, now that you’ve done it yourself?”

Will blinks. He thinks about pulling the trigger, seeing Hobbs go down, _finally_. His fantasies of that day, the versions of it that play over again in his head, they aren’t situations where he acted differently. He doesn’t imagine an ending where everyone ends up alive, safe. Will just watches the scene, over and over again. As if adopting the perceptions of all the others in the room, as if seeing through their eyes, understanding their thoughts, might help him better understand his own.

“Yes.” He knows his answer isn’t really right, but it’s been too long now to leave anything unsaid. He can barely remember what the question was, caught up as he is now in a loop, going over everything he knows about that day. 

Hannibal, for whatever reason, doesn’t press the question. They talk through the case a little, and afterwards, when he’s driving to the hospital, he realizes neither he nor Hannibal had mentioned the evaluation again. 

 

\- - - - -

 

This time, he doesn’t dream about Hobbs. He doesn’t even realize it is a dream until he wakes, eyesight blurry in the mint green hospital room and in the background, the soft murmur of Alana’s voice. Will understands, then, that he was not just in the hall, watching the retreat of some feathered elk. But, that doesn’t bother him. The dream, or the waking. Abigail is resting, still, and Alana’s presence alone is like a salve. 

  

He remembers that moment the next day, running past Abigail’s empty room. The staff is useless, he himself so distracted that he almost trips when he sees Stammets, pushing the cart where Abigail lies prone. 

He doesn’t think about taking the shot. Doesn’t even think about how he had until afterwards, when Jack gets there with the rest of the squad to break apart the scene. 

  

“Who did you see?” Hannibal asks him, after Will tells him what had happened, a brief explanation for why he had to ask for another meeting so soon after the last. He’s all nerves, he knows. He's been angry for days, angry at Hannibal for how casually he shifts his attentions on Will, angry at himself every time he falls asleep. Angry that sitting here feels like a better option than anything else, but it does, even after everything. Hannibal has been watching him since he arrived, is leaning back now in his chair with his hands folded in his lap. He is watching Will, still, when Will shrugs his response.

“I didn’t see Hobbs.”

“Then it's not Hobbs' ghost that's haunting you, is it? It's the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good.”

Will shakes his head.

“Killing Hobbs felt just.”

“Which is why you're here,” Hannibal continues. “To prove that sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abigail, not killing her dad.”

“I didn't feel a sprig of _zest_ when I shot Eldon Stammets.”

“You didn't kill Eldon Stammets.”

“I thought about killing him." He's shifting in his chair again, not entirely sure how the conversation got away from him. "I'm still not entirely sure that wasn't my intention, pulling the trigger. I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana.”

“A boat engine is a machine. A predictable problem, easy to solve. You fail, the motor dies, there's a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs?” 

“You're supposed to be my paddle.” He feels ridiculous saying it and the feeling must've reflected in his tone, because Hannibal leans in.

“I am.” Hands clasped and he's looking at Will as Will steadily avoids his gaze. “It wasn't the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it? Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”

Will has to look him in the eyes at that, and when he does, when Hannibal doesn’t blink, he takes a shaking breath.

“I liked killing Hobbs.”

There’s a brief moment, before he looks down to the floor, before Hannibal leans back in his chair, when, _finally_ , Will sees something spelled out on Hannibal’s face. Recognition. _Validation_. _You’re not the only one, Will_. His problem is not his alone.

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal says eventually. “He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”

“Depends who you ask.” He’s feeling anxious again, feeling like its a little too unreal to still be sitting here. But, Hannibal’s next words bring him out of it with a choke.

“God's terrific,” the man says. “He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of his worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a hymn.”

It feels like he can’t breathe, but he manages to speak all the same.

“Did God feel good about that?”

Will doesn’t let his eye-contact break when Hannibal replies.

“He felt powerful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes with season one episode two, it took me forever and i'm still not happy with it waahhgguughhh


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